


Fits and Starts

by fireweed15



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Epilepsy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireweed15/pseuds/fireweed15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was evident that he revived by fits and starts. He would suddenly come to himself from actual delirium for a few minutes; he would remember and talk with complete consciousness, chiefly in disconnected phrases which he had perhaps thought out and learnt by heart in the long weary hours of his illness, in his bed, in sleepless solitude." – The Idiot, Fyodor Dostoyevsky</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fits and Starts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 5 of the Hurt / Comfort Bingo on LiveJournal – Major Illness; TW – Medical stuff [Epilepsy]

It was the longest red light at which Romano had ever had the displeasure of sitting, and he wasn't even driving, or really able to see the traffic light very well through the heavy snowfall.   
  
"I'm sorry, Italyich," the driver said, not for the first time. "I didn't think you would be stuck here."   
  
Romano looked over at the driver and smiled warmly at her. "It's alright, Matrioska," he replied, laying his hand on her arm. "You can't help it."   
  
Russia smiled slightly. "I just feel terrible," she admitted. "Everyone else got out on last night's flights and you're stuck here."   
  
"Don't feel too bad," Romano soothed. "They weren’t spending the night with the prettiest girl in Europe."   
  
Russia's face flushed the same shade of pink as her coat as she pulled through the intersection. "You're welcome to stay with me as long as you need to," she said, turning on to her street. "I know how you hate the hotels." Her pale purple eyes seemed to flick between the snowflakes. "I can't see General Winter carrying on in this way for more than a day or two."   
  
"Thank you, Anna," Romano said sincerely.   
  
The other Nation nodded graciously as she turned the vehicle up her driveway and into the garage. "Welcome to the Hotel Braginskaya," she teased, lowering the garage door behind them.   
  
"The best in the city, right?" Romano teased back, unbuckling from his seat.   
  
They spent several minutes in this way, trading playful flirtations as Romano retrieved his suitcase and carryon from the trunk before Russia opened the side door that led into her spacious kitchen. The openness and warm yellow walls were a welcome change from the steel grey sky outside. "How do you feel about lunch?" Russia asked, kneeling to unlace her boots.   
  
"That sounds good," Romano replied, balancing on one foot to unlace his own shoes.   
  
"How does solyanka sound?" she offered. "I make mine with ham and chicken and tomatoes."   
  
Romano's mouth watered at the prospect. "Am I the only one you make it with tomatoes for?" he teased.   
  
"You and I are the only ones who like it that way," she said with a laugh, working her leg out of the boot. "I only bother to add them when I know you're coming over."   
  
"You know the way to my heart, Cara," Romano enthused, slipping his shoes off and brushing an affectionate kiss against her cheek. "May I help?"   
  
"Wouldn't you rather relax?" she asked, sliding out of her second boot.   
  
"Cooking  _is_  relaxing," he explained, shrugging out of his winter coat.   
  
"In that case—" She set aside her boots and wrapped him in one of the rib-crushing hugs for which she was so famous. "I would love to cook with you, Italyich."   
  
•  
  
They spent the better part of the late morning in the kitchen, playfully flirting between Russia's instructions (and gentle scolds whenever she caught Romano trying to nip a bit of tomato) and his teases about how easily her eyes watered when she cut onion. Within the hour (both admitted to occasionally speeding things along by using pre-packaged ingredients), they were seated side by side in the dining room. For the room's respectable capacity, it felt cozy and intimate.   
  
"Thank you, Anna," Romano said sincerely as they finished. "It was great."   
  
"Thank you," Russia replied, dipping her head slightly. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."   
  
Romano reached over and laced his fingers with Russia's on the tabletop. "Is there anything I can do to help clean up?" he offered.   
  
Russia started to answer when, in the next room, the phone started to ring. Romano barely heard it, but Russia seemed almost taken aback by the sound. "I have to take that," she mumbled. "It's probably the finance minister checking in." She stood and brushed a kiss against his cheek before stepping out to take the phone call.   
  
As she left, Romano started to gather up the bowls and spoons. Without Russia's presence, the room seemed cold and unusually quiet. As he stood, he felt his knees go weak and he swayed on his feet. Drawing a sharp breath, he grabbed the back of his chair for balance.   
  
The feeling passed—rather, it lessened to the point where he felt like he could walk without collapsing. As he took up the stacked dishes and carried them toward the kitchen, he tried to fathom what had made him so off-balance. Russia had offered, and Romano had accepted out of propriety, a single shot of vodka, but most of the meal's drink had been coffee—besides which, Romano preferred to think that he was made of sterner stuff than to get drunk off of a single shot…   
  
So why did it feel like he was drunk off one shot?   
  
He passed through the doorframe and paused. " _Dove cazzo sono_?" he grumbled. When the hell did his kitchen have yellow walls? Where the hell was his island and hanging rack of copper pots? Who's fuckin' house was this?   
  
As the deposited the dishes on the foreign countertop, a photograph on the refrigerator caught his eye. It was of him, seated on the white sands of a Sicilian beach, grinning, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a woman with long ash blonde hair and pale purple eyes—  
  
Anna! Memory suddenly flooded Romano's consciousness—this was taken last summer, when Russia had visited for two weeks! Hell, he remembered Veneziano taking the picture. All of the other questions he asked when he'd come in were suddenly making more sense—the reason this kitchen looked nothing like his own was because it was Russia's kitchen, and the reason for that was because his flight home had been cancelled, due to weather if the howling wind just outside was any indication. His brow furrowed. He knew that—he knew all of that. So why the sudden gaping holes in his memory—  
  
The feeling of dread, the fear, hit him like a ton of bricks. Romano gripped the edge of the counter, drawing shuddering, gasping breaths. Not here, not now—  
  
Fuzzy gray shapes (he'd always thought they looked like fusilli) started to swim in his line of vision, and the feeling of dread redoubled. With no small measure of effort, he looked over his shoulder and did the only thing he could think to—cry out. " _Anna_!" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded far away.   
  
•   
  
 _"…ano… Ro… yich… Roma… Wake up, Romano…"_  
  
Romano's eyes opened slowly, and he winced at the light. As he turned his face away, something soft brushed his cheek. As foggy as his mind was, the softness' pale pink color and lavender scent was unmistakable. "Anna?" he mumbled, turning his face upwards again.   
  
His vision coming more into focus, he could see Russia's face bent over him, her features painted with maternal concern. "How are you feeling?" she asked quietly, rubbing his arm.   
  
" _Che cosa_?" he mumbled, suddenly realizing he was lying on his side on the tile floor. He pushed himself up on his elbow, his brow furrowing when he realized that his shirt collar and sleeves were unbuttoned. Blinking, Romano looked down at himself; immediately he was aware of the urine soaking the crotch and seat of his trousers and on the tile. "Goddamnit," he groaned, flopping over onto his stomach and hiding his face in his arms. "I fuckin' seized."   
  
"Are you alright?" Russia asked, rubbing his back.   
  
"I had a seizure and pissed myself and my pride is wounded," he replied honestly, lifting his head and slowly turning onto his back again, "but I don't think I'm  _hurt_."   
  
"Oh good." Russia shifted to sit cross-legged before reaching over to gently draw Romano into her lap. "I looked you over but you would know better than me, hmm?"   
  
Romano squirmed in her hold, the wet cloth of his trousers sticking to his legs. "Do you  _really_  want to hold me after—"   
  
"I am not worried about that." She cradled him like a infant and brushed a gentle kiss against the top of his head. " _Ya byl tak napugan_ …"   
  
"What?" Romano asked, laying his head on Russia's chest. Her blouse was cool against his cheek, and her heartbeat was soothing.   
  
"I was scared," Russia admitted, stroking his hair. "At first, I wasn't sure what was going on, but when I realized… Well, I found your tags—" She tapped something on his chest.   
  
Romano looked down and realized she was talking about the medical alert tags he always wore under his shirt. "I did the best I could," she finished.   
  
"It looks like you did anything right," he mumbled, reaching up to rub his eyes. "Ugh… I don't even remember what happened."   
  
"Would you like me to fill in the gaps?" Russia offered.   
  
"Please," he replied, "but could I… change first?"   
  
" _Konechno_ ," she agreed, standing and lifting Romano with her. As she set his feet on floor, she tossed a dishtowel on the wet tiles.   
  
Romano averted his eyes as she did so, but Russia didn't seem to be putting anything thought to it. "What's the last thing you remember?" she asked, looping her arm through his for support. "How much?"   
  
"Hardly anything," he admitted, letting Russia guide him out of the kitchen and toward the stairs to the house's second level. "I never remember a lot after…" He couldn't bring himself say "after I seize." "It usually takes me a couple hours to figure everything out, so if you could just please tell me what you know…?"   
  
Russia nodded her understanding. "I was on the phone," she started, "and then you screamed for me—"   
  
"I didn't scream," Romano cut off, naturally becoming a little defensive. They were about halfway up the stairs now, and his legs felt like bags of wet sand.   
  
"Then you were speaking very loudly," she replied. "Anyway, I came running when you cried out and then I realized you were having a fit, so I…" She shrugged slightly. "I did what I could—your collar and sleeves, I cushioned your head…"   
  
"How long did I…" Romano swallowed hard, and his throat felt like it was lined with chalk. "Did I seize?"   
  
"Just three minutes," she answered. "Not long enough to call 112." They stopped outside the master bedroom. "Do you… want me to call anyone? Your doctor, you brother?"   
  
"Please god, don't call Veneziano," Romano groaned. "I don't want him to worry about it, and it's not like he can do anything from Rome anyway." He reached over and opened the bedroom door. "I just want to clean up and change and fucking sleep."   
  
"That can be arranged," Russia assured him. "Is there anything I may do to help you?"   
  
"If you could get my pajamas out of my suitcase, please?" Romano requested, breaking away from her to hobble to the attached master bathroom. "I'm going to try to… wash up."   
  
"You can throw your clothes in the laundry hamper," Russia called after him, heaving Romano's suitcase on the bed.   
  
Romano called his thanks over his shoulder as he closed the door and stripped out of his day clothes. Despite all of Russia's understanding, he felt his cheeks flush a deep red, and the metal of his medical tags burned against his now-bare chest. He bypassed the shower and settled shakily on the edge of the tub, wrenching the warm water on and picking up one of the washcloths hanging nearby.   
  
His blush was creeping up to his ears now, even though he knew he had no reason to be so embarrassed. Russia wasn't blaming him or upset about what had happened or asking uncomfortable questions, but it was embarrassing all the same. There was a reason he took all the pills he did, and why had a specific doctor (even more specific than was typical for a Nation), and why he had to jump through all those fucking hoops just to be able to get a drivers license.   
  
"Romano?" Russia called through the door.   
  
" _Si_?" he called back, fumbling  through the motion of pouring some borrowed body was on the washcloth.   
  
"Are you alright?" she asked. "You sound upset…"  
  
"Was a I talking to myself?" Romano asked, swiping the soapy cloth over his legs. It was enough that Anna had to see him in the middle of a seizure, but if he was talking to himself, too—  
  
"In Italian, yes," Russia answered.   
  
"I'm fine," he replied, finishing washing himself and rinsing the washcloth under the running water. A proper shower sounded so nice right now…  
  
"When you're ready for your pajamas—" There was a soft knock at the door—"I have them in my hands."   
  
"Just a minute…" Romano turned off the tap and hung the used washcloth over the edge of the tub. He stood on shaky legs, gripping the porcelain for support, before grabbing a bath towel to wrap around his waist. His modesty was perhaps unnecessary, but it was very self-soothing. "Okay, I'm ready."   
  
The door creaked open and Russia stepped inside, offering Romano a warm, affectionate smile as she held out his change of clothes in a neat stack—pajama bottoms and top, and a clean pair of briefs. "Need anything else?" she asked.   
  
"This is fine— _spasibo_ , Anna," he replied, accepting the clothes before looking her over. In the brief time he'd taken in here, Anna had changed, as well, into a loose flannel nightgown. "Why are you in your pajamas? It's one in the afternoon."   
  
Anna looked down at her clothes, her smile becoming almost shy. "I thought I'd lie down with you," she admitted, "if that's alright."   
  
"That actually sounds…" Romano bowed his head for a moment. "Really nice."   
  
Russia smiled again before pressing a kiss to Romano's forehead. "I'll go turn down the bed." With that, she turned and left Romano be, closing the door behind her.   
  
Leaning against the wall, his body still heavy with exhaustion, Romano dressed and dumped his dirty laundry and the wet towel in the laundry hamper before opening the door and treading back into the master bedroom.   
  
Russia was already snuggled down between the sheets, and looked up at him with a warm, almost tired smile. For a moment, Romano felt something like guilt twinge across his consciousness—dealing with him had probably drained her just as much as the seizure had him. "I saved a place for you," she said as he pulled back his share of the covers.  
  
"Thanks," he mumbled, crawling into the bed and settling in. As soon as he drew the covers over his chest, Russia reached over and drew him against her body, her taller frame easily molding around his body. It was warm, and she still smelled like lavender and she was so  _soft_ … "Did you set an alarm?"   
  
"Hm-mmm," she hummed into his shoulder. "We wake up when we wake up."   
  
God almighty, that sounded wonderful. Romano  _hmm_ ed his thanks, laying his hand on top of Russia's and loosely lacing their fingers together where the rested on his stomach before his brow furrowed slightly. "Anna, how do you know so much about  _epilessia_?"   
  
Russia lifted her head slightly, only to lie back on her pillow once more. "I spent a lot of time with Mr. Dostoyevsky," she replied easily.   
  
"Huh?" She was always the type to be straight-forward in her speech, sometimes even a little blunt, and her vagueness confused Romano (more than usual, at least).   
  
"Fyodor Dostoyevsky," she repeated. "He had seizures, too—they started after his father passed." Romano could feel her shaking her head sadly, as if to convey how very sad that was. "I lived with Mr. Dostoyevsky and his family for many years, and… I simply learned what I could. The knowledge changed over the years, but the sentiment remains the same, hmm?"    
  
Huh. That was interesting. "I guess, yeah…" he replied, cuddling down. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy, and knew sleep was coming to claim him.   
  
"You're tired," Russia announced softly behind him, leaning over his shoulder slightly to kiss his cheek. " _Spi spokoyno, Italyich_."   
  
"Anna?" Romano mumbled, letting his eyes close. " _Mille grazie—bol-bol'shoye spasibo_." Whatever Anna might have said in reply (up to and including a gentle tease about his shaky Russian), Romano didn't hear as he (willingly, this time) gave himself over to unconsciousness.


End file.
